Streetlight Symphony
by oypoodle
Summary: “I can honestly say“ It’s a calm voice, amused, his hands shoved deep in his jeans. “That I never imagined I would see you here.” A pause. “Like this.”
1. Chapter 1

She lets out a deep breath and pushes back the tears that are threatening to overcome her. She can feel the burn in her eyes, the twist in her stomach. It is completely ridiculous, really, to cry over spilled groceries.

She reaches forward and picks up an orange that has rolled forward on the Manhattan pavement and sits back down, closing her eyes and clutching the orange close to her chest. She is sure she is making a complete fool of herself, sitting on the pavement, a tear in her pantyhose, clutching an orange to her chest tightly. But then again, she lives in Manhattan, and there are stranger things to see.

Rory Gilmore was never one for dramatics but sitting there on the pavement, she aptly considered today a day of cataclysmic proportions. It was a day when the universe aligned to make everything you do a failed effort. She had woken to find her alarm clock had not wakened her at the appropriate time and she was twenty minutes for a staff meeting. When she got in the shower, she discovered, with an appropriate amount of surprise, that the heater had malfunctioned yet again.

Arriving late for her meeting, her hair still wet on the ends (thankfully it was Spring in New York), she was informed that instead of the political turmoil she had been longing for, she would be covering the uprising of technology in society. Not a bad subject, but a tired one.

With slumped shoulders and a bruised ego, she had sauntered over to the coffee machine and not only managed to burn her tongue on the first sip, but spill the remaining on her new white blouse.

Needless to say, when Rory stepped out of her office building, she expected the heavens to open up and the four horsemen of the apocalypse to descend upon her. Instead, she was not-so-surprised to miss her usual subway home and was forced to shell out the extra cash for a taxi.

She sighs on the pavement and clutches the only solid thing she has left from today close to her chest, her eyes clenched shut tightly, wishing it were all just over. The eggs are cracked and spilling their translucent blood on the warm pavement and her knee is throbbing in muffled pain and she really, really, just wants to curl up in a ball and cry.

She hears a cough above her and she ignores it, clutching the ordinary fruit with a zealous passion. The obviously male voice coughs again and she lets out a small sigh, turning her blue orbs upward.

A familiar smirk and brown eyes and she feels like maybe she shouldn't be sitting on the Manhattan pavement clutching an orange because suddenly, she is embarrassed.

"I can honestly say-" It's a calm voice, amused, his hands shoved deep in his jeans. "That I never imagined I would see you here." A pause. "Like this."

He is smiling. She can see he is trying not to but she knows him (well, knew him) well enough to know that he is barely holding back a chuckle. He extends his hand down to her and she takes it gratefully, blushing slightly.

He looks down at the groceries surrounding her (now them) and then at the cut bleeding on her knee. He gestures towards it with the nonchalance she once found an adorable and frustrating idiosyncrasy.

"You okay?"

She nods dumbly as she still can't believe they are standing here, like this. He bends down to retrieve her broken and battered groceries and she watches the curve of his back, blinks away and bends down to help him.

"What are you doing here?" She mutters and it comes out a little harsher than she meant to. Her emotions always seemed to be amplified around him. He looks up with his dark amber eyes and searches hers.

"I live here." He says simply.

She nods and stands up with him, taking the groceries from his arm, clutching them to her chest. He picks up the orange with a comic reverence and bestows it to her with a slight bow. She chuckles and puts it in her bag, with the rest of her things.

He studies her for a moment, his eyes shining. "You look good, Ror."

Ror. One word. One simple epithet and she can feel the icy cold awful of the day wash away slightly. She smiles, genuinely, for probably the first time all day, all week, all month.

"You look good too Jess."

He smiles and nods, turns his body away from hers, and walks across the street, disappearing in the crowd of people always on the streets. She watches as his dark hair fades away in the crowd and smiles to herself, turning away, moving forward.

Not a bad day.


	2. Chapter 2

Oh wow! I had work for two days straight and I didn't check my e-mail. I come back and then there are all of your responses! It means a lot, it really does. And I planned to make this a multi part thing. I really do love New York.

-

He loves the subway. It's probably his favorite part of the city. He loves sitting and leaning his head back against the rumbling metal, his eyes drifting shut at the sounds of the city.

It's a symphony of idle chatter, the rush of metal against metal, a few random strums on a guitar, and announcements on the loud speaker (always obnoxious). It's a dance of people, moving together, apart, around one another.

He takes his seat as the car lurches forward, a few people stumbling with unsteady footwork. He smirks slightly and tilts his head back, closing his eyes and folding his hands in his lap.

The car makes an abrupt stop at the next station and he feels the shift of the entire car. The people moving off and the people moving on collide and wind around each other in a rhythmic dance. He remains in his seat, watching as a few realign themselves, gripping the handles above their heads.

The man standing in front of him shifts slightly to the left and he catches a glimpse of brunette and clear blue and he thinks maybe, just maybe, his heart has stopped beating for a fraction of a second. The man moves back to his former position and Jess cranes his neck to the side, looking around the navy blue suit and black briefcase.

She is sitting with her eyes closed, head tilted back, listening to the symphony of idle chatter, the rush of metal against metal, a few random strums on a guitar, and announcements on the loud speaker.

He smiles and leans back, crossing his legs at the ankles, causing the man with the briefcase to glance at him in annoyance at the intrusion of precious space. Jess just shrugs in nonchalance and the man lets out an aggravated sigh, moving down the car to find a more suitable space.

When Jess looks back at her face her eyes are open and she is looking right at him, almost as if she sensed him there, or at least he likes to think that. She has got a small smile and he knows (well, knew) her well enough to know that she's trying not to grin.

"We've got to stop meeting like this." She says calmly and her voice is warm, washing over him in the highly industrial setting.

He lets out a small chuckle and it comes out more like a ragged cough. His emotions always were amplified around her.

She tilts her head slightly to the side and gives him a pensive look. He keeps eye contact with her, surprised that she doesn't abruptly look away (she isn't the girl she was).

"How is the orange?" He offers and her cheeks taint pink and she looks down putting a hand over her eyes (some things never do change) letting out a small chuckle.

She looks back up and her eyes are glowing. "The orange is fine."

He smiles at her and hers slowly fades away. He gets worried and he wonders if he has done something wrong. Her eyes still smile but her face says something different, the way her lips turn down slightly, the tightness in her forehead.

"What?" He asks slowly.

A smile grows on her face. "I've never seen you smile like that."

He looks at her with a blank expression as the car comes to an abrupt stop and she stands up. She adjusts the strap over her shoulder with a petite hand and looks down at him, swiping her bangs out of her face with her free hand.

She smiles again. "It's nice."

And then she is gone, disappearing into the dance, her amber hair swinging behind her.

He leans back against the wall of the subway car again, letting out a small sigh, crossing his legs at the ankles, folding his hands in his lap. He closes his eyes and smiles, just the way she likes it.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry that took a bit. Between school work and work work and rereading the Harry Potter series in preparation for the goodness about to come, I have barely had time to breathe. Again, I really do appreciate those reviews so much. It means a ton.

-

She closes her eyes as the wind sweeps across her face and she pauses, breathes in for a moment, and smiles. Sometimes the asphalt and the metal gets to be a bit much and she disappears in the park for a few hours, twisting herself around the trees, and it feels like home.

She doesn't usually miss home. She doesn't miss the constrictiveness of the quaint town. In the city, she can stretch her arms out and breathe deep without colliding with another. Another who knows everything about her, from her birthday to her preferred choice in music to her full history of boyfriends. No, that she doesn't miss.

But she misses fall in her Connecticut home with her mother gathering baskets of leaves and showering them upon her whenever she chooses to leave the comfort of the porch. She misses fresh picked apples and warm cider and the smell of something warm and sugary baking in Sookie's kitchen.

In the city, the change of seasons is hardly noticeable, at least not in the way she had grown to recognize. There were few trees outside the park and buildings never change with weather. They remain intimidating and solid, their glass never reflecting the heat of the sun or the frigid wind.

So she closes her eyes as the fall wind sweeps by her face and she can almost smell something warm and sugary but it is probably because she is a block down from that great donut shop and its not even close to what she remembers. But she can pretend.

She stuffs her hands into her denim pockets and her hair swirls around her face with the passing breeze, orange and brown leaves swirling around her boots. She watches as children scramble in the leaves starting to litter the ground and smiles because she is reminded of old days and older leaves.

Her feet follow the cement pathway and she finally lets her eyes linger somewhere other than the trees and when she sees him she smiles to herself because it is so likely for her body to unconsciously lead her to him. It never ceased to amuse her after their encounters, when she would go home and curl up on her second hand couch, a cup of warm coffee (two sugar, one cream) cupped in her delicate hands, that in such a large city, they consistently ran into one another. That they were consistently drawn to one another.

But she didn't believe in fate and happenstance. She believed in rigid order, specific rules, that their meetings were purely coincidental.

She watches him for a moment, pouring over a beaten paperback (easy to tuck in back pockets) and watches as his eyes skim back and forth casually over the worn, yellowed paper. She sits down next to him and he doesn't move an inch, doesn't even flinch. He just turns the page and she has to restrict herself from chuckling when she recognizes the words on the page.

"Ayn Rand." She muses quietly, her voice flowing into the wind and billowing around them.

"Political nut." He responds almost automatically and she can hear the chuckle in his voice. She is reminded of other fall scenes with baskets and ponds and feet dangling over stilled water. But they are much older now and much has changed.

They sit in silence for a bit longer, the sounds of children laughing and the turning of pages accompanying them when he closes the book and folds it in his hands. He looks over at her for a moment and she meets his gaze.

"You have a-" He is smiling, his hand twitching in his lap.

"What?" Her face is self-conscious, worried.

He chuckles and reaches forward, pulling a leaf out of her hair with determined gentleness and she feels something move inside her when his hand lightly grazes her cheek as he pulls away. She swallows as she watches him release the leaf in the wind, the brown mixing with the others of its kind.

He smiles at her again and stands up, gracefully tucking the worn book into his back pocket (she smiles). She feels a jolt in her stomach and maybe she does believe in fate and happenstance, just a little. He's taken two steps away from her before she stands up and follows him.

"Hey, Jess." He stops and turns half towards her, a curious expression (raised eyebrow, bright eyes). Her hands find her pockets again and she leans back in her heal, twisting back and forth.

"Let's have coffee."

He ponders her for a moment as her heart beats in her chest franticly and then a small smile breaks his features.

"I would like that." He states casually.

She nods and looks ahead of them, catching another whiff of the donuts a block down. "I know a place."


	4. Chapter 4

Oh my goodness. I apologize again for these little bits taking so long. Thank you so much for the reviews. It means a ton.

The next couple chapters are going to be close time frames, like the same event I mean. I don't know if I explained that properly, if you don't understand, you will. I promise.

-

He is late. He parks his car near the diner and hastily runs a hand through his hair, giving himself the once over in the dingy mirror hanging loosely from the ceiling (he barely drives it, he does live in New York).

The door creaks in the quiet street as he climbs out and darkness envelops him. He smiles because he suddenly remembers that this place does sleep and it isn't the city and everything is usually closed by eight. Nothing is illuminated but the center square where he can make out people standing, a couple arguing, and a familiar brunette, seated in the back row, her head angled in concentration.

He lets his feet carry him over the bright green grass towards the light (he smiles at the symbolism) and stands behind her in the back row, looking over her shoulder. She is reading and her legs are tucked carefully underneath her, balancing precariously on the white wooden chair.

"Taylor, I swear to God-"

He glances up at the familiar voice and smiles in spite of himself. He can see Luke in Taylor's face, Lorelai half heartedly trying to hold him back, her hand loosely clutching his flannel shirt.

"This has been going on for an hour now."

He glances down and cocks an eyebrow at her. She has folded the book in her lap (Hemmingway, a quiet chuckle) and is staring ahead with glazed eyes. He takes the seat in the row of white chairs next to her, crossing his ankles on the chair in front of him and pulling his jacket tighter around him.

"What happened?" He mutters quietly. He notices the smile that immediately breaks out across her face and the way she readjusts herself in the seat as if her happiness can't be contained.

"Well, Taylor is saying that the extra row of chairs added is a violation of some code." She rolls her eyes. "And that Mom and Luke have to get rid of it before the wedding. Which means they have to uninvite-" She looks to her left and her eyes quickly scan the chairs around them. "Fifteen guests."

She beams at him and leans a little closer. He gets a whiff of her lavender perfume mixed with just the smell of, well, her and he feels something shift inside of him. She shifts her eyes to the side and ducks her head, whispering.

"Luke got angry."

Jess nods appreciatively and leans back further in his chair and watches as his Uncle struggles to release himself from Lorelai, his face red and that particular vein popping in his forehead. He hears her next to him, chuckling softly, and her arm rests against his gently.

He lets out a deep breath and closes his eyes, leaning his head back. "I miss this place." He mutters quietly and he can feel her turn to look at him, her crystal eyes searching his face, amusement present.

There's a pause and he can actually feel the shift in the air that comes with her grin. "Well, I can honestly say that I never imagined I would hear you say that." She giggles. "Like this."

He doesn't know why but he doesn't smile. He thinks maybe its because he remembers who he was so many years ago and the people he hurt, mostly her. And maybe its because he never really opened himself up to the place. He never let himself have a family here; he didn't let himself become a part of something.

He hears her go silent and the shift that comes with her smile is gone, the electricity dissipated. He thinks she may have noticed the tension in his face because her hand is suddenly clutching his, twisting her fingers around. He opens his eyes and looks down at her, lolling his head to the side, cocking his eyebrow (again).

She smiles at him gently, her eyes searching his, her thumb rubbing careful circles on the back of his hand. He can feel the blood rushing through his body, the oxygen circulating through his chest. He feels like he is on fire, or drowning, or something and he smiles just because it's still what it was and he knows, honestly knows, the feeling he gets when she looks at him like that will never change.

He licks his lips and ducks his head closer to hers. Their foreheads are almost touching and he can feel her fingers tighten around his lightly, can feel the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, can feel the wind blowing her bangs across her face and the ends tickling his skin, can feel her breathing on his nose, can almost feel what he had almost forgotten-

"Jess!" He jumps back immediately at the sound, pulling his hand back, tilting his head to the side and coughing. He sees Rory shift in her seat and bring her hands to rest on the old paperback again. She smiles as her mother saunters down the isle and plants herself in front of the pair, her hands on her hips.

Jess meets the elder Gilmore's eyes with hesitation but she doesn't scowl or glare like he thinks she will. Instead she gives him a soft smile and lets out a defeated sigh, raising a hand and pointing towards Luke still arguing with Taylor, his arms moving franticly.

"Please go get him. I want to go home."

Jess nods, standing up and brushing past Rory, his knee bumping hers. He meets her eye with the contact and she gives him a private smile but her mother fails to notice. Instead Lorelai falls into the seat vacated by Jess and lets her head fall against her daughters shoulder.

As he gets closer to the arguing pair, he can just make out hoarse expletives and rushed sentences. He gets between his Uncle and the grocery owner and nods at Luke.

"Hey, why don't you take Lorelai home? I'll take care of this."

Luke looks for a moment as if he is going to explode and then lets out a deep breath, his eyes softening a bit and then hardening again when he glances over Jess's shoulder at Taylor. Jess pats him on the back gently as he is walking away and Luke mock glares at him.

"So Taylor." He claps his hands lightly in front of him and rubs them together, his eyes shining. "Let them keep the chairs."

"I'm not going to let you, a hooligan if I ever-"

"Let them keep the chairs." He speaks as if he never heard Taylor interject, his voice rising only slightly. "Or I promise you there will be many, let's say obstacles, for your shoppers Monday morning."

Taylor looks at him for a moment with disbelief, as if he can't possibly believe he is hearing what he is hearing. His mouth opens and closes silently before he turns and stalks away, Jess waving quietly behind him.

He turns to walk back to the diner and fall into a familiar bed that never was removed or taken away ("You always have a home here." He had said. "Always.") when she catches his eye. She's lingering behind her mother and Luke and her face is peaceful. He winks at her and smiles and he can see her blush from here. She gives him a small thumbs up and winks in return before turning and doing a small jog to catch up to Luke and Lorelai. He watches her retreating form and smiles in the square, looking around at the small shops, the solitary traffic light, and the diner he called home.

Yeah, he misses this place.


	5. Chapter 5

You wouldn't think working at a hardware store would dominate your life but guess what, it does. Thanks for being so patient, thanks for being so supportive and encouraging. You guys are the best reviewers ever.

-

She smoothes the fabric of her navy blue dress down again and looks around anxiously. She is standing partially hidden by a tree but can still see the multitude of people already gathered in front of the gazebo, sitting in the carefully aligned white rows.

She closes her eyes and lets out a small pant of breath, willing herself to calm down. She has walked down an aisle before, has walked down a flight of stairs in front of over a hundred people, and has made speeches in front of her graduating class. She doesn't know why but right now she is terrified, nervous even, and it isn't even her wedding.

But it's her mothers and her mother has wished for this day for so long, with every fiber of her being, and she is just so terrified of messing it up, even in the most miniscule way. With a misplaced step or a tripping bridesmaid.

She opens her eyes again and her arm is dangling loosely by her side, the bouquet of flowers Sookie put together the night before bright in contrast to her dark dress. Almost all the chairs are full and she can feel her heart pumping in her chest. She knows the moment is soon. The moment she has to walk down the aisle and carefully take her place behind her mother.

She closes her eyes again and forces herself to be rational. It is just a twenty foot walk down the aisle. And heels aren't that difficult to walk in, especially when those heels aren't more than an inch off the ground. For Pete's sake, running in two inch heels to catch a last minute cab in the rainy New York streets takes more skill than this.

She thinks she just may throw up or faint or curl up in a ball and die when she feels a hand on the small of her back and a familiar voice in her ear.

"You know, you look real enthusiastic."

She opens her eyes and lets out a deep breath, her shoulders slouching as she looks at him. He is smirking at her slightly, his hands shoved deep in his suit pockets. She squints at him and tilts her head.

She doesn't think she has ever seen him look like this. Not only is he wearing a nice suit with his normally out of control hair combed back neatly, but there is a glint in his eye and he just looks happy. Happy because Luke is happy. Happy because everyone around him is happy.

Except her. Because she feels like she is going to die. Collapse and die in anticipation of her ultimate failure of tripping at her mothers dream wedding and landing in a heap, most likely with her dress above her head, in front of everyone she has ever known. Ever.

Her eyes are wide and pleading as his eyes search her face. He almost nods to himself (barely a jerk of the head) and stands right next to her, offering up his arm. She looks down at his arm and then back up to his face where he is looking at her expectantly, eyebrows (both this time) raised.

"But you are supposed to be standing next to Luke."

"It's not like I'll be walking you to Chicago. We just happen to be going to the same place." He nudges her with his elbow. "Come on, I'll be right here."

She smiles because he understands. He understands why she is so nervous and terrified right now. She lets some of her apprehension melt away and slides her arm through his, straightening a bit as the music starts up front close to where Luke stands. He gently squeezes her hand as they take the first step.

-

She can feel his gaze on her. She always could, even when they first met. She can feel the hum in the air conducting his intense concentration. She looks up and meets his eyes across the table and raises an eyebrow. He smiles softly and tilts his head to the side, in the direction of something. She follows the tilt and looks back at him, actual shock on her features, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He rolls his eyes slightly and she giggles, causing some of their tablemates to glance in concern. She sobers and stands. He follows.

One hand loosely rests on her hip and the other takes her hand. She is still giggling and he lets out a small sigh.

"I do not see what is so funny."

She tries to stop as she rests her hand on the lapel of his jacket but it only causes her to giggle a little louder. He gives her a look and she smiles brightly at him.

"I've just never seen you dance, let alone offer to."

"What can I say? I'm a changed man." He is smiling but she can see it falter slightly and his eyes darken a bit. She can tell he is remembering what he was, who he used to be. She nods a little and smiles at him (reassuring him) and he holds her gaze, returning the soft smile, his hand gently squeezing hers.

It's a moment of reconciliation, a moment of forgiveness, a moment of healing. Finally, something between them acknowledging the past and how they were both hurt, both had scars just barely healed across their hearts. It is silence, but it is a look, a smile, a squeezed hand. They never needed words.

They sway to the music, her fingers tracing imaginary patters on his jacket. She feels his hand tighten slightly on her hip and she leans closer to him, where she can feel the warmth of his skin and his breath on her neck. She lets her forehead fall forward until it is resting gently against his and her eyes close on their own accord.

"I'm glad you saw me when I was sitting on the pavement clutching an orange."

She feels the shift in the air that accompanies his smile. "I'm glad too."


	6. Chapter 6

Let me start by apologizing for the, what has it been, three month break. You see, I am currently applying to a variety of colleges and those applications suck the life right out of you and make you not want to write in the least. Whatever, I am going to try and not leave three-month breaks in between every chapter.

-

"Son of a bitch."

Her hand immediately flies to her forehead and she squints in pain, observing the open medicine cabinet through half-opened eyes. It's moving slowly back and forth, obviously feeling the residual impact of her forehead.

She pushes it closed with her pinky finger and looks at her reflection, now tainted with a large crimson smear on her forehead. She closes her eyes and lets out a frustrated noise that she thinks, in retrospect, sounds something like a wounded animal or her mother at two in the morning after one two many Swedish fish.

She has been house sitting for a day, not even that, just a night, and she has already managed to slice her head open with the medicine cabinet door. The blood is pounding to her forehead and her head swims. She feels the cut and the raised skin around it, keeping her eyes closed.

She has just mustered the courage to open her eyes and look at the battle wound when the doorbell rings. She watches as her reflection's eyes widen considerably and she reaches for one of the hello kitty towels, hanging on the far side of the sink.

She catapults her body down the stairs and takes a calming breath before she opens the door, willing herself to look normal with a hello kitty towel held to her forehead.

He's smiling (crooked) when she opens the door, holding a coffee that she naturally assumes is for her in one hand. He's smiling and looking at her and she almost forgets that she is holding a hello kitty towel to her forehead.

"Why is there a hello kitty towel on your forehead?"

She raises an eyebrow at him and lowers the towel and his smile morphs into concern, his eyes darkening and the corners of his mouth turning downward. He takes a fluid step forward, putting the coffee down on the key table, shutting the door with his foot, and putting his hand on her chin to tilt her forehead towards him.

"Jesus Ror."

She would be impressed by his fluid actions if she weren't so concerned with the electricity now flowing through her body with the contact of his hand on her face. She is reminded of afternoons spent on couches with her back pressed into the arm and days spent walking through town, her back pressed into wooden posts.

He's touching her broken skin gently and when he hits a certain spot she winces and draws in a lungful of breath. He looks at her apologetically (a new look she hasn't quite seen before) and reaches down, twisting his fingers with hers.

He leads her to her own kitchen table and gently tells her to sit and she obeys, like a lost child obeying an elder. He's opening and closing cabinets and finally finds what he is looking for, ducking down to reach in the very back corner.

The air shifts when he sits down in front of her and she just looks at him carefully as he reaches forward and takes a napkin from the table. His hands work nimbly as he balls up the napkin and lightly tilts the alcohol onto it.

He looks at her and his amber eyes are soft and she feels like she has just been wrapped up in a large blanket and she feels safe, like she used to. She feels safe and she knows he is counting on that because she knows that this next part is going to hurt like hell.

"This is going to hurt like hell."

He whispers it like it will somehow reduce the pain and she thinks that nice. She clenches her jaw and closes her eyes and again, his hand is on her chin as he tilts her head down slightly, and the electricity calms the fire that is raging through her forehead as he dabs gently at her cut.

"It isn't too deep. You don't need stitches, which is lucky."

His deep voice is quiet and she opens her eyes. They are watering slightly from the pain in her forehead, giving them the appearance of an even deeper blue. He meets her eyes and she watches as his face loses movement.

His features crumble slightly and he is looking at her like something has happened. He is looking at her like he has lost her. Like he did before, when she told him things she never should have said ("No, no, no, no."). He drops his hand from her forehead and it falls with a dull thud on the table. He is still looking at her, the crease between his eyes deepening.

He seems to suddenly remember himself and stands up abruptly, the scraping of the chair on the floor startling the silent room.

"I'm just going to-"

"Stay for dinner." Her hand is tugging on the cuff of his jacket and he raises an eyebrow at her, his face seemingly blank without the characteristic smirk.

"It is eleven in the morning."

She blinks and gives him a small smile, tugging on the cuff of his jacket so that he is closer to her. He takes a hesitant step forward.

"Stay for dinner."

The air between them hums back to life as he smiles at her and reclaims his seat. He reaches forward and takes the box of band-aids, carefully picking one out, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

She is staring at his hand that is lying idle on the table and she wants to grab it and twist her fingers with his because she likes how they fit together any way their hands are meshed. She wants to see how it works when she laces her fingers through his.

But his hand has moved and he is peeling the backs of the band-aid off, still in deep concentration. He leans, with his elbows on the table, towards her and she closes her eyes as his fingers carefully smooth the plastic over her cut. When she opens her eyes again he is still close, but his hands have left her face.

"I'll stay for dinner."


	7. Chapter 7

Late Christmas gift I suppose. 

-

He is sitting on the floor, the remote resting idly in his hand, his back pressed up against the arm of the couch. He can hear her in the kitchen, moving around and reaching for glasses and he is struck by the domesticity of the moment.

The entire day he had felt like he was in some sort of weird dream. They (as in him) had made an elaborate breakfast consisting of anything and everything they thought of. As he had flipped the pancakes in the pan he had closed his eyes and listened to her hum quietly beside him. She hummed and he felt like he was somewhere warm and safe, he felt like he had finally come ho-

A burst of laughter comes from the kitchen and he turns his head so quickly a bone cracks in protest. He smiles before he even sees her and when he turns the corner his grin is stretched (lopsided) across his face.

She is sitting on the ground by the refrigerator, clutching a (now) empty jug to her chest. Red liquid surrounds her as she laughs wildly. She looks up at him with her Aztec eyes and tries to sober her laughing but when he looks at her pointedly, she cracks up laughing again.

He takes a step towards her, making sure to stay out of the circle of kool-aid and holds out his hands. She lets out another giggle and reaches two red covered palms up to him like a five year old being carried up to bed after falling asleep on the couch.

He pulls her up carefully, feeling heat spread from his palms up his forearms as she clutches his hands tightly. She lets out a small shriek as she slips in the kool-aid and his hand immediately falls to her lower back, bringing her body closer to his. She hits in to him abruptly and their hips mesh together.

She looks at him carefully and he reaches up, one hand still on the small of her back, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. He can feel her let out a small breath against his cheek and he can feel his heart hammering in his chest. She rests her hand on his white t-shirt and it immediately leaves a pink handprint over his heart. She looks at it and her cheeks turn the color of her colored stain and she lets out a small giggle.

"Woops, sorry about that."

Her voice is quiet and he doesn't think she is because neither of them has moved and now he can feel her heart in the hand that he is still holding and it seems to match his, which he feels is oddly significant.

"It's okay. I kinda like it."

She giggles again and quirks an eyebrow. "Jess Mariano." And the way she says his name he can't help but let his head fall a little forward. "Likes the color pink."

She tilts her head back and lets out another belt of raucous laughter and he so badly wants to kiss the exposed skin of her neck and that frightens him because he hasn't had that urge in a very lone time (four hours).

The doorbell rings and he hesitantly releases her. She is still giggling and reaching for the paper towels as he makes his way to the front door. He is looking at the forgotten coffee cup on the key table as he swings open the door, reaching in his back pocket for his wallet to pay for the enormous amount of pizza they have ordered.

When he turns his head he is hit immediately with the past and he just wants to laugh at the irony of the situation because of all the things to possibly happen, this is perhaps the oddest. He never thought he would be in this situation again when he left the town and the people in a beat up car years ago. He never thought he would be in this situation when he came to her dorm and promised her he was changed and asked her to run with him.

He stares for a period of time he considers to be impolite but polite has never really been a consideration when it comes to them.

"Hey Dean."

Dean seems to have forgotten where he is because his eyes are huge and his jaw is hung open and he is looking at Jess like he has just been told a giant earthworm is planning to destroy the world at any moment. A typical reaction.

Rory comes prancing out of the kitchen with her pink hands and runs up behind Jess, wrapping her arms around his waist and planting two more pink colored handprints on his stomach. He remains stock still as Dean's eyes grow larger. Noticing the tension, Rory pokes her head over Jess's shoulder.

"Oh."

Her hands drop from his waist and she does an awkward shuffle step around him, stepping partially in front of him, almost as if she is protecting him. He bites back a laugh at this because she comes up to Dean's neck and she is not exactly the epitome of "the protector".

"Hey Dean." And her voice squeaks and this finally seems to shake Dean's gaze from Jess's face and he looks down at Rory, swallowing hard.

"I thought you were home alone." It isn't a question as much as a statement of fact and Jess watches as Rory fumbles with her hands and he is reminded of shared dinners and a single solitary ice cream container. He is reminded of the regret in her eyes and he is angry because so much has changed. They are grown up, damnit, and it shouldn't be like this anymore.

He is just about to point this out when he notices the fumbling hands turn to crossed arms and her hip juts out as she strikes the definitive defensive stance.

"Jess brought me coffee."

"What is Jess doing here?" Again. Pointed questions and the look of mistrust.

"What are you doing here?" He can't help it. The eighteen year old isn't so far gone in him.

"Delivering her dinner."

"Our dinner."

"Her dinner"

"Finally made delivery boy?"

"I own the place."

"And apparently you have done very well for yourself seeing as you deliver the pizzas. Is your scooter parked out front?"

Dean takes a step forward and Rory moves completely in between them. "Enough." Her voice is calm and quiet as she lays her hand on the pizza boxes, removing them from Dean's hands.

"You can't be serious Rory? I thought you were done with this. I mean come on, at least before you had the excuse that you were young."

She is silent and he can't see her eyes but he knows what the look like because her shoulders are tense and the knuckles on the pizza box are white.

"Please leave."

"Rory, come on."

"What did you think you would get when you came here Dean? Why did you decide to deliver my pizza? You thought I was alone? What? Did you think I would invite you in? Maybe we could bond over some dinner, and what? I would do you?"

Jess looks down at the top of her head surprised. Obviously some pent up frustration (and other things) brewing.

Dean is quiet, his eyes dark. He opens his mouth to say something but she takes a step forward, causing him to back up and shut his mouth.

"At least I have the excuse that when me and you were together, I was young."

She slams the door shut and turns around, meeting his eyes, the pizzas clutched with white knuckles. She stares at him calmly for a second before bursting out again in that uncontrollable laughter. She pushes past him and shuffles in the kitchen. He spins around and smiles after her, his hands shoved in his pockets.

He chuckles and shakes his head slightly, wondering what would have happened if years ago she had yelled back in the ballroom in her red dress that lit up her lips. He obviously underestimated her (vastly).


	8. Chapter 8

I apologize for this being late. I had it half written but… a friend of mine was in a car accident a week ago and passed and I haven't been sleeping, eating, functioning. Writing really wasn't a priority. Seventeen year olds are too young to die. Well, heavy sigh, writing about these two makes me happy and I consider this to be a very special chapter, for a number of reasons. So I hereby dedicate this to you Matt, you will be missed.

-

He's drumming his hands on his lap to a non-existent beat and she is watching him out of the corner of her eye. They have a respectable seven inches between them and his eyes are glued to the illuminated screen.

She has her head tilted at such an angle so that she can see his mouth twitching at odd intervals. He is chewing on the inside of his cheek and now his knees are bouncing up and down. She isn't used to this and she must say, she is amused. She is used to cool, indifferent Jess. She is used to the Jess who doesn't care, doesn't show emotion, doesn't let anyone (_anyone_) in. She tried, she should know.

"What?"

She jumps slightly and shakes her head, looking at his face which is fixed in intent contemplation (the eyebrow. always the eyebrow).

"What?"

He smiles softly and turns his head back to the television as she bites back a laugh at their juvenile behavior and stands up, busying herself with the discarded pizza crusts and boxes. She carries the trash to the kitchen and returns to sweep up their crumbs, using her hand as a makeshift tray.

She is somewhat aware that his attention is now directed on her, his head tilted against the back of the couch, his body now completely still. She doesn't move to look at him, but continues to sweep the table clean, smiling to herself.

She squeals loudly, half in laughter, half in surprise, when she feels a tug on the back of her jeans as his finger twists into her belt loop and she tumbles backwards. She falls haphazardly into his lap and he lets out a grunt, squinting his eyes shut.

She giggles and rests her hands on his chest as he squints open an eye. "Didn't think that through."

She laughs and tilts her head to the side like a curious dog. He makes another grimace and quirks an eyebrow.

"Try not to look so pleased with yourself. I hardly believe you intended that specific maneuver. I was the one who pulled you over and onto my very delicate lap."

"Delicate."

He smiles in spite of himself. "Yes. _Delicate_." He draws out the word as she ponders the way his bottom lip juts out in determination. Looking at his lips is a dangerous thing. She snaps her eyes to his.

"Oh? Well, what possessed you to pull me into your lap?" She smiles but he doesn't return it any longer and his eyes look darker a bit. She remembers this look. Anguish and indecision was never a good look for him and he was never very good at hiding it. She feels her forehead wrinkle and she ducks her chin down a fraction of an inch to looks into his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

She can't help but run her thumb across his cheek and she feels his fingers tangle in the belt loops on her hips.

"Seven inches is too far." He pouts.

Their noses are touching as he leans forward and her eyes drift shut, relief flooding through her body at the cause of his (mortal) anguish.

"You seem to be a fan of the belt loops."

He chuckles lightly and gives her hips a gently squeeze. She swallows (hard) and shifts in his lap slightly. His delicate situation seems to have repaired itself because he doesn't grunt or make any noise of displeasure as she makes her move. She hasn't opened her eyes and she's pretty sure he hasn't either because she can feel his breathing and she knows this is how he breathes right before-

His lips brush hers and she fists his shirt in her hands because she had forgotten, completely forgotten, how it feels to have him kiss her like she's the only girl ever, anywhere, everywhere, forever, that is of any and all importance.

She responds to his kiss and she can feel his smile because the room is suddenly brighter and she feels like giggling because this is what she wanted (won't ever admit it) when she first saw him on the subway, head tilted back against the steel wall, eyes shut. She wanted to craw up into his lap and kiss the part of his neck that forces him to make that noise deep in his throat.

He pulls her closer to him as their shy kissing turns into a desperate battle for contact. These past few days with hand holding and sneaking glances and light touches have not been enough. She shifts her body so that she directly faces him and her knees land on either side of his. She wraps her arms around him and plays with the hair at the base of his neck and remembers how the first time she did this, he had pulled away and looked at her curiously, unused to intimate contact as opposed to frantic physicality.

He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her close, pulling away from her lips and burying his head in her neck. She sighs and runs her fingers through his (still unruly) hair as he breathes a pattern (a promise) into her neck.

"Well, this is better."

She pulls back and looks at him, brushing the hair out of his eyes. "What's better?"

He looks down at their bodies that seem to almost be entwined and squints his eyes in faux concentration. He looks up at her and smiles and she feels a part of her shift inside.

"I would guess…no inches."


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks to cmtlshem15 and meme for encouraging me with their reviews to write again. Or rather, guilting me into writing again. I forgot how much I loved these two and how easy it is for me to write them Thanks especially to meme. For you followed me to a different story, in a different fandom, to harass me about continuing. I thank you for your persistance. So here it is, another installment. Please accept my deepest apologies for waiting a whole fucking year. I hope it is somewhat worth it (unlikely).

* * *

She is standing at the sink doing the rather large amount of dishes that have piled up over the course of the day and his hands are splayed across her stomach as he rests his chin on her shoulder. She thinks this should feel awkward, but it doesn't. Because, she remembers with a smile, they are adults now and everything is changed.

She leans forward to shut off the water and smiles when he moves forward with her, not willing to let her go for a second. She smiles because this is so different, so new, and so not. He is still Jess. And she is still Rory. But this time, he isn't letting her go. In fact, he is holding her to the point of almost pain. But the pain of his hands on her hips, his fingers making indents on the bones that jut out of her pale skin, is a good kind of pain. Nothing like the pain she felt when he told her he loved her and ran (or drove) or when he yelled and she ran (to someone else).

She sighs (happily) as she dries her hand on the dishtowel and turns around to face him. It makes her smile again when she turns around to see her tiny pink handprint still on his chest and she smiles even wider when his hands don't leave her hips. She meets his gaze and she thinks her mouth just might fall off with the width of her grin because his eyes are sparkling and they remind her of nights at gas stations (come here.) and stolen kisses outside the diner while he (tries) to take out the trash.

It seems to her that his thoughts are in the same direction as hers because he leans forward slowly and catches her lips in his. The room does that thing where it spins quickly and she lets her eyes drift shut as his hand slides up her ribcage and over her shoulder to cup her cheek.

She doesn't have a name for what she and him are yet. She doesn't know what they are together, but then again she doesn't think they ever had a name for what they are. They just…were. Even when her mother (in a fit of anger and not knowing what she was saying. She never knew him. No, not like she did) told her Jess wasn't everything in-

Rory gasped in sudden realization and her mouth opened against his. Jess chuckled quietly before gripping her face with a little bit more force and letting his tongue dart out to meet hers. It isn't what she meant to do, honestly, because what she just thought of is just, awful, and she needs to stop him because he needs to know what she is thinking RIGHT NOW but his tongue just touched hers and, God, she forgot how good it felt when he did _that_.

She moans slightly and it only spurs him on as he squeezes her hip and pushes his against hers (perfect fit) so that she is squished painfully (wonderfully) between his body and the countertop. Her hands run through his hair as she lightly massages his scalp and his teeth find her bottom lip and tug gently. She lets out another gasp because, Jesus lord almighty, he never did _that_ before. And that was nice. She liked that.

They were young before and while he was experienced, he was awfully impatient. They usually battled for dominance on his Uncle's couch-

She gasps again and this time, her eyes shoot wide open. She knows he notices her tense body (how could he not, all pressed up against her like that) because he stops immediately, his head moving back and looking at her with a quirked eyebrow (always, always the eyebrow).

She puts her hands palm down on his chest and pushes him away slightly. She has to because she is about to look at his face and on her journey up to his face, she just knows her eyes are going to land on his lips and looking at his lips are a dangerous thing. She meets his eyes quickly.

And her heart breaks a bit because she knows what he is thinking. She knows he is thinking that she just realized the enormity of the situation, how big this was, and she didn't want any part of it. She sighs and leans up on her tip toes (even though she doesn't have to) and pecks him on the lips chastely, reassuring.

But he still looks confused and she remembers why she stopped in the first place because what she is thinking IS huge. It is impossibly big and no matter how much she didn't want to stop him with his tongue and his hands and his tongue she just-

"Jess." She pants, her baby blue's growing wide. And he looks terrified at her seriousness and panic. Absolutely terrified. And he should be, she thinks with assurance, because what she is about to say is just going to derail everything.

She takes a deep breath and grabs a bit of his shirt in her hands as she fists the fabric. His eyebrows look like they are going to pop right off his head if he raises them any higher.

"Luke and my mom are married."

His breath comes out in a deep wooshing noise and his eyebrows drop back down, his body completely relaxing. He replaces his hands on her hips with certainty and smirks at her and she just wants to scream and freaking smack him as hard as she can in the head with the pot that is drying behind her because he. Just. Doesn't. Get. It.

She grabs the sides of his face with both of her tiny hands firmly, slightly squishing his features and turning his cocky grin into a grimace of pain. His eyebrows resume their earlier position. She sets her mouth into a firm line and looks him dead in the eye.

"We. Are. Cousins."

His eyes grow a little wider for a second and she lets out a miniscule breath because he (finally) gets it. He knows now. He can become as appalled as she. He can stumble backwards with a look of horror on his face and begin spraying himself with the febreeze that sits unused under the counter (because, god help them, the Gilmore's do NOT clean) and not touch her ever again. No hands. No tongue.

She sighs wistfully.

And he begins to laugh. And not just a chuckle but a full blown guffaw. She drops her hands from his face and narrows her eyes at him but he doesn't see because he almost completely bent in half, his hands holding his abdomen as he laughs loudly in the small kitchen.

And while she is pissed off at him for laughing at her like this and not assessing the gravity of the situation, she thinks its kind of beautiful when he laughs like this because he had missed so much when he denied himself happiness.

But that thought is fleeting and she crosses her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes impossibly further. When he chances a glance up, his laughter finally ceasing, a smile is tugging at his lips (crooked, always crooked), she pouts.

He rolls his eyes and puts his hands on her tiny hips again, his grin spreading so that his lip just down and she can see his teeth. She can't help it when tears well up in her eyes at the possibility of losing everything all over again. And he doesn't even care. She is losing those smiles and his teeth and those chocolate depths and that tongue (the tongue is foremost in her mind) and he doesn't even care.

He sees the tears and the smile falters and his hands cup her face much like hers did seconds earlier.

"Rory." He states plainly and she knows he was going to continue her name with a sentence meant to reassure her but she just can't help herself.

"This is incest!"

And his eyes widen a little bit at her volume and bluntness but she can see the smile threatening to poke through again. She pokes him hard in the chest and he winces a bit and rubs the spot with a small frown. She glares, not even feeling sorry for causing bodily harm.

He rolls his eyes and tugs her forward so that her head is under his chin and his warm palms are running up and down her back soothingly. She glares into her cousin's chest. She winces.

"You know Webster's defines incest as a sexual relationship between two members of an immediate family. You know, blood related."

Her eyes open with shock and she looks at the toaster sitting on the counter, watching his reflection as he stares pensively at the window above the sink.

She sighs and relaxes in his arms and she knows he knows he has won this conversation because his reflection is grinning and she can't bring herself to be mad at him because her fears are abated and she can go back to being giddy about her man using his tongue in her mouth.

"I don't even want to know why you have the Webster's dictionary definition for incest memorized." She grumbles as his hands go back to squeezing her hips. He laughs loudly in the small kitchen and (again) she thinks how beautiful the sound is.


End file.
